


Me, Not Her

by Skalidra



Series: Dealing with Demons [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, F/M, Heartbreak, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 13:32:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15486909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Killian knew that coming back to Neverland was a bad idea, and he never should have let himself get talked into it. Pan isn't someone to be trifled with, and there are all too many ways to find yourself trapped on the island, not least of which is Dreamshade. And then there's the fact that Emma's previous lover, the father of the very child they've come to rescue, is imprisoned here too. It's not exactly the most fortunate turn of fate.





	Me, Not Her

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so weirdly enough I actually just found this thing in my Gdocs history? I remembered, vaguely, getting frustrated with it and deleting it, but apparently it was like, a full 5k nearly-done thing instead of like 500 words like I remembered so I don't know what the hell I was thinking at the time. But anyway, I went and looked it up out of curiosity, and since Gdocs keeps everything forever, I found it! Found, polished, and ready for consumption.
> 
> Enjoy! [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

“All by yourself, captain?”

Killian’s had too much practice to flinch at the voice that suddenly cuts into his thoughts, even though a moment before he was _absolutely_ sure that he was utterly alone out here. Expecting the invasion of his space is a habit he learned on Neverland; it’s waned a bit while he’s been gone, but there are some patterns of behavior you just can’t break.

He does close his eyes for a second, letting his head dip before he lifts it again. Pan’s leaning carelessly on a tree across the small clearing, arms crossed and a smirk playing at one corner of his mouth, studying him with sharp green eyes that break through the facade of a boy he puts up.

It would almost be convincing anyway, if it wasn’t for the vicious, sneering lilt to his words as he adds, “Not that being alone is much of a change for you, is it?”

Killian’s jaw sets before he can stop it, Pan’s words, as always, hitting unerringly close to home. He’s always been able to do that; viciously insightful comments that cut right to the core of you, baring every weakness and vulnerability that you try to hide from the world. Maybe Pan can’t actually read minds, but he’s never needed that ability to be able to read the people they belong to. It’s always felt an unfair advantage, as if Pan needed any more of those either.

“What do you want?” Killian makes himself ask, lifting the flask and letting another swallow of rum burn away the twist in his gut.

He knows this game better than the rest of his companions, even Baelfire or the crocodile. Baelfire may have been here a long time, but the boy he was spent his time avoiding Pan, and the demon let him. After all, Killian begged for his life a time or two. Bargained, other times. Before Pan lost interest in the novelty of him caring about someone else, and stripped those choices away from him too. Baelfire has no idea what Killian gave for him, and as far as he’s concerned, that’s the better choice. Better that, than Baelfire knowing what made him Pan’s favorite pirate.

He doesn’t need anyone’s pity.

Pan steps away from the tree with the strange, sliding grace that’s always defined his movements. Even when he’s fast, and jagged, those edges slide into one another with unnatural ease.

Killian lifts the flask in his hand as the silence reigns, taking another swallow. He hasn’t eaten for at least ten hours now, he’s had more of this than he should since they rescued Baelfire, and it’s a bloody terrible idea to let his guard down around this particular demon, but he’s a little past the point of caring about any of it. If Pan wants him dead, wanted _any_ of them dead, he’s had a million chances. Pan likes to play more than he likes to kill; not being entirely sober will make it a little easier to endure.

Not that the demon doesn’t enjoy killing, but everything on the island is a toy for him and broken toys aren’t as much fun to play with. The others are still holding out some hope that Pan isn’t manipulating every move they make; sending them to rescue Baelfire, splitting them up…

Bloody fools, all of them. None of them have really realized the trap they’ve stepped into. Not yet.

“Very noble of you, Captain,” Pan says, his eyes like two blazing emeralds in the otherwise shadowed angles of his face, “helping them get _Neal_ back. It must burn to know that if you hadn’t said something they never would have found him. Emma would be all yours, and you could pursue your new _darling_ without a fight. But competing with the father of her son?” Pan gives a mocking wince. “Ooh, that’s a _tough_ one.”

Killian’s teeth clench together, but he forces a sharp grin and raises one eyebrow. It’s not enough to fool Pan, very little ever is, but it makes him feel a bit better. He’s been shielded behind the front of a sarcastic pirate for a long time. Centuries. It’s an easy thing to fake now.

“Really? Don’t we know each other well enough to dispense with the lies, Pan?” He tilts the flask and lifts it in acknowledgement; half a salute. “I know how you play your games, demon. Don’t pretend there was any way that ended well for me.”

Maybe Pan would have been nice enough to leave things the way they were, to hide Baelfire off in a corner of the island where the marauding heroes would never find him. But more likely he’d put Emma’s ex right in their path, and then casually make a mention of the fact that he’d told Killian that Baelfire was alive, and where to find him.

_(“Oh, did he not bother to tell you that?”)_

It’s probably what Pan expected him to do, honestly, but things have changed since the last time he was in Neverland. He’s met _Emma_ , he’s— Things are different. He came back to this _hell_ for her, after all.

“Mmm, true,” Pan says dismissively, shifting another half-step forward till the light on his face shifts, revealing how he smiles. “Things would be easier without Baelfire in the way though, wouldn’t they?”

“I’m not going to win her based on lies,” Killian repeats; the same thing he’d told Emma when she asked him why he’d told the rest of them about Baelfire, instead of hiding him. “I’m better than Baelfire, she’ll see it.”

“Do you love her?” Pan demands.

Before he can think about how bloody terrible of an idea it is, how _possessive_ Pan can be, the answer drags itself out of his mouth.

“Yes.”

His head bounces sharply off the boulder he’s sitting on when suddenly the demon is _right bloody there_ , shoving him back with strength those lean arms shouldn’t have and pinning him back against the stone. Pan is perched over and on top of him, suspended on the rock in a way that shouldn’t physically be possible, but Neverland’s never cared for the rules of nature where Pan is concerned. Killian’s pretty sure he’s bleeding, the back of his head aches in a way he’s very familiar with, but he ignores the low throb of pain. He’s taken worse, many times over.

Pan sneers, glinting eyes narrowed in anger and something close to hate. “She _can’t_ have you,” the demon hisses, voice seething with jealousy and a petty possessiveness. “You’re _my_ pirate, Killian, did you forget that?”

He knows better than to struggle — last time he fought one of Pan’s pins he ended up missing a fair bit of skin from his back — so he only swallows, tilting his head back to bare his throat like Pan’s just a really pissed off dog. The easiest way to calm the demon down from one of his deadly moods is to be passive, make sure the boy knows that he’s not going to fight and he’s fully aware of who’s in control. It’s something Killian learned fast while stuck on the island, trapped in close quarters with Pan and his lost boys. Surrender, or invite something worse.

True to form, Pan gives a vicious little laugh and twists the grip on his coat to pull him up off the rock an inch or so, and doesn’t do anything worse. The laughter is one step above the sneering hatred; he knows all of Pan’s stages of anger by now.

“I’ve got something to show you,” Pan whispers, shoving him sharply back against the rough stone. The force drives the breath from Killian’s lungs, and he can’t help raising his hand to cover his mouth, coughing a few times before he can get the air back enough to speak.

“What makes you think I’m interested?” he asks, and his pulse jumps sharply as Pan seizes his wrist, pinning it beside his head.

The demon boy gives a nasty little grin, leaning closer, and even with all his practice Killian can’t help cringing back against the rock when that mouth — and more importantly those _teeth —_ hover a hairsbreadth over his ear. He’s seen what those teeth can do over the years; seen them covered in more blood than he cares to remember. Usually his, but not always.

“Don’t we know each other better than that, Killian?” Pan asks, spitting his sentiment back at him in a quiet hiss. “You’re always interested, and you know better than to tell me no.”

Pan releases him after one last shove, fingers clenching hard enough around his wrist that he knows the grip will bruise, and vanishes from the air above him. Killian pushes up off the rock, finding Pan’s figure once more across the clearing, back against his original tree. The demon holds up a bit of silver metal that he knows far, _far_ too well, and the fingers of his remaining hand clench, but he holds back most of the glare. The less reaction you give Pan, the faster he’ll get bored. If it doesn’t make him that much more determined to provoke the reaction he wants.

“Come along, _Hook_ ,” Pan mocks, spinning the sharp curve of metal around one finger. “You can have it back when you’ve seen what I want you to.”

Killian stands, wincing at the throb of his skull, and raises his hand to gingerly prod at the source of pain. Sure enough, it comes back bloody. _Lovely_. Pan turns as soon as Killian is fully standing, slipping into the undergrowth of the jungle, and he grudgingly follows. He can go willingly or Pan can drag him, but the demon boy always gets what he wants in the end. _Centuries_ stuck here, and he’s never seen Pan truly fail at anything. The demon’s catchphrase is a well deserved one, as much as Killian wishes it wasn’t true.

“So what am I supposed to see?” he asks Pan’s back, pushing through the plants with less care than the boy ahead of him. They seem to just move out of Pan’s way, but they show _him_ no such consideration.

Pan doesn’t answer, only shoots a cruel smirk over his shoulder. He’s smug again, which means that whatever Pan wants to show him, Killian won’t like it. He can count the number of times that Pan has actually helped him — without causing him grief or pain in exchange — on the fingers of one hand. His _missing_ one. Still, he’d be lying if he said that he really didn’t want to know. Even if it hurts, or Pan claims a heavy toll for it, the information that the demon hands out is almost always useful. Pan seems to hold to the idea that the truth is usually nastier than anything made up, so why lie? The fact that he only hands out what he’s sure will either hurt or manipulate is just part of the bargain.

“I’d keep quiet, captain,” Pan says in a hushed voice, drawing to a stop in an area that looks no more important than any other section of the jungle. “Who knows what _monsters_ are out here, hm?”

“Well there’s _you_ ,” he counters, and the boy draws his lips back in something between a grin and a sneer. Pleased at the biting comeback, but warning him not to continue pushing.

He approaches at Pan’s beckoning gesture, throwing aside any lingering caution insisting he stay out of reach. There’s not much point in trying to stay out of range of a foe who can vanish and reappear at will; he learned that a long time ago, and painfully. He stops in front of Pan, looking down the two or three inches between them. Pan will always be a teenager, looking seventeen and not quite an adult and trapped on that edge by his own choice. If you didn’t know better, couldn’t see the _malice_ in every line of him, you could forget that he’s anything more than a boy.

Killian opens his mouth to speak, and then there’s a sharp point digging into the underside of his jaw, driving it closed again. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes for a second in frustrated resignation.

Oh, of _bloody_ course. Pan does just _love_ to use Killian’s own weapons against him, and his hook is no exception. In fact, Pan seems to find a special joy in taking it from him. He’s lost count of the number of times the demon has dragged the point across his skin, leaving lines of welling blood behind, or put it against sensitive skin and challenged him to stay still. Pan might be more brutal around the Lost Boys, but when the demon has him alone the mockery of a boy likes to take things slow. _Play_ until he loses consciousness, or the pain is enough to break him one more time. He considers it a point in his favor that he’s still sane after all these years, relatively.

Pan gives a smile, almost gentle if it weren’t for his narrowed eyes, and reaches out with his free hand to pull aside the large leaves of the bush beside them. Against his better judgment, Killian flicks his gaze to look through the opening, into a small clearing that’s otherwise completely cut off by the undergrowth. His head turns to follow, the sharp sting of the hook dragging across his throat dull in face of the shock.

He shouldn’t be surprised, he _shouldn’t_ , but the two people in the clearing — lying on spread clothes and moving against each other in obvious pleasure — still somehow manage it. Blond hair slides against an arched throat and he jerks his eyes away from the sight, not that the muscled male back or short brown hair is any less sickening of a sight. Baelfire. _Emma_.

“Should I call out to them?” Pan asks quietly, the point of the hook tracing over the stubble on his jaw. It stings, it’s probably leaving at least a line of red skin if not a cut, and Killian focuses on the painful distraction with relief, looking back. “Do you think they’d let you join in?” Pan says, mockingly innocent and all the crueler for it.

“Why did you bring me here?” he asks, trying not to think about the sight, about the pain in his chest.

Pan smirks, letting the leaves fall back into place. “I’m just keeping you up to date on the rules of the game, Captain. Didn’t you want to know your real chances?”

Killian steps back, shaking his head once it’s free of the hook’s touch and turning to leave. “It’s not my damn business,” he manages roughly, and gets three steps back towards his own private clearing (where there is a flask of rum and _solitude_ waiting for him) before a hand grips his jacket at the right shoulder and jerks, spinning him back around.

Pan is in his face, lips twisted in a true sneer and anger back in his green eyes, and Killian should _care_ that the demon boy looks halfway to full-on murder but he just _doesn’t_. One hand leaves his jacket in a flash of motion, grabbing hold of his hair and _yanking_ , and he bites his tongue not to give the demon the satisfaction of a cry of pain. He’s swung around, slammed up against a tree that was more than a dozen feet away just a second ago. Pan presses up against him, pulling him down so he’s level with the demon’s face and he has to tense his bent legs to keep himself standing at the strange height. Pan gives another short, sharp pull on his hair to get his attention, like the demon doesn’t already have it.

“Don’t turn your back on me, Killian,” is hissed at him, nearly against his jaw. “You know better than that.”

“Get off me,” he demands, raising his remaining hand to shove at Pan’s side. The demon feels inhumanly warm even through the layers of dark green clothing under his hand, and his push doesn’t even force Pan to push back.

Pan laughs with a high-pitched, mocking edge. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says with sarcastic sincerity. “Did you _actually_ think she loved you back? That she’d choose you over him _?_ ”

Maybe he’d dared to hope, for a day or even just an hour, that yes, she might. Foolish, _stupid_ , but he did.

“Get the bloody hell off me!” Killian snarls.

Pan slams his head against the tree hard enough to flicker his world out for a moment.

“I should break your heart more often, captain,” the demon says with another laugh, as he blinks dizzily. “You haven’t had this much fight in _decades_.”

Pan pushes closer, crushing him into the trunk with a strength the teenager shouldn’t have, leaning in until breath ghosts over his ear and throat. For a moment all Killian can think of is the memory of those white teeth anchored in his skin, bearing down hard enough to break skin.

“Come on, Killian,” Pan hisses in his ear. “You’re a _pirate_. You’re a self-serving, violent, thief, and he’s not. What chance did you have?”

“Baelfire _left_ her,” he insists, speaking through the fogged haze of the blow to his head.

“And clearly it matters! Face it, _Hook_ , you’re just not the hero Baelfire is. You’ll never be.” Pan’s words are always aimed to hurt, but even knowing that the barb drives deep into his heart. It would be better if it wasn’t so true.

“I can _try_.” The protest comes out in a tone that’s almost desperate, tellingly so, and Killian clicks his mouth shut again. That’s too much, too obvious; he never should have said anything.

Pan draws back to look him in the eye, watching him for a few moments, and then gives a burst of laughter. The fingers in his hair give another jerk, and he winces. “Is _that_ what this is about?”

His stomach lurches, feeling the incoming blow before Pan even says the words.

“Do you want to be Lieutenant Killian Jones again, _Captain?_ Because you can’t.” The words are the petty cruelty of a child, but with Pan those are always the most vicious ones. “She doesn’t know anything but this; the rum-soaked, one-handed, _pirate_. All these years; you don’t know how to be anything else. You’re clinging to the last pieces of who you gave up, the honor of your precious brother. Let the fantasy go, Killian, he wouldn’t even _recognize_ you now.”

Killian recoils, even though there’s nowhere for him to go. The words feel like a knife low in his stomach, like Pan has condensed one of the bouts of torture the demon enjoys doling out into a simple few sentences. His breath comes short and sharp, and he turns away and squeezes his eyes shut. Like if he just closes them tightly enough, it will make Pan let him go.

Pan eases up, softening the grip in his hair to a gentle stroke down his neck and below the collar of his leather coat. Killian hates that it doesn’t hurt, hates the suggestion that the demon _bastard_ can be anything but sadistic, and hates even more that of all the bloody things _this_ is the one that isn’t a lie. It would be _so_ easy to forget that Pan is the reason he’s hurting, _so_ easy to let the demon boy lure him back with promises of comfort, safety, and vengeance _._ It would be enough to wash out the pain sitting hollowly in his chest, and Pan could play nice, for a while.

But he’s been down this road before. Sometimes, Pan makes these offers, and sometimes he accepts them, but _Pan_ is always the one who breaks him enough that he needs it to begin with, and _Pan_ will be the one that breaks him again when the demon gets bored with treating him gently.

“Oh, Killian,” Pan says softly, “why pretend to be something you aren’t? You’re a pirate. You’re _my_ pirate. Leave them behind, come with me.”

He opens his eyes at the click of metal, looking down to find his hook has been carefully, expertly, twisted back into place. Pan’s fingers slip up his arm, curling into the extra fabric of his coat, and the other hand gently slips up to cradle his jaw. It’s only a moment before there are lips brushing his too, as soft as always. A hundred different memories of that touch fight for Killian’s attention, most of them delivered while he was bloody and bruised, and he has to swallow them back.

The little moments of kindness, those are the bits that break you the most.

He swallows, eyes flickering shut for just a moment as he lets himself feel that kiss. Just to remember. Then he looks up.

“No.”

There’s an instant flash of anger in Pan’s eyes.

“ _Excuse_ me?” Pan demands, and the creak of the demon’s hand tightening over the leather of his coat feels louder than it should be.

Killian braces his hand against the tree. This is probably going to hurt. “Done this dance before, Pan. You always get bored with playing nice, so I’ll take my chances with Swan.”

“You really love her,” Pan says quietly, incredulously. Then the demon’s eyes brighten into a brilliant emerald green, in absolute _fury_.

For a second, Killian’s convinced that Pan’s about to break something; probably him. Tear bloody gashes in his flesh, or come up with something nastily inventive that will leave him bloody and broken in the dirt, like a thousand times before. Always to be healed, set right and sent off good as new, but it’s the _breaking_ that’s the point.

Pan lets go. Takes a step backwards and flashes a smile that’s all sharp edges.

“It doesn’t matter,” the demon spits out with a sharp laugh. “You can love her all you like, she doesn’t want you. You’re never going to get what you want from her.” He tilts his head, leans in and Killian tenses as those teeth come dangerously close to his jaw. “When you figure that out, I’ll be there, Killian. Then we can talk.”

Killian shivers, blinks, and Pan is gone.

Part of him is glad, even though he knows that whatever poor fool next decides to talk to Pan is going to take the brunt of the demon’s anger. At least it’s not him. Someone in Neverland might pay for what he’s said tonight, but not _him_. Once, that wouldn’t have caused him any guilt at all. Now, it just a small curl in his gut; enough for him to ignore.

He pushes off the tree, straightening up, and takes a moment to orient himself before moving back towards his original clearing. The temptation burns in his chest, but Killian forces himself not to turn around, or look back. He’s _not_ going back to look again. It’s not right for him to invade their time, no matter how the jealousy and the pain are tearing him apart from the inside out.

The clearing is just the same, except for the flask he dropped when Pan pinned him. It’s upright on the boulder he was sitting on, lid securely tightened. It’s full again too, he knows that. Pan’s usual gift to him; one thing the demon boy gives him without expecting anything in return. He’s probably easier to manipulate with the alcohol in his system, but it also numbs out the pain, so he _really_ doesn’t care what advantage Pan thinks he’s getting.

It only takes a second of debate, standing in front of the boulder, before Killian snatches the flask up and spins, sitting down on the rock. He braces the flask between his knees to unscrew the cap, letting it fall to the side and taking a deep swig of the rum within the moment he’s got it open. Someone will come looking for him, eventually.

 _Probably_ , whispers a voice in the back of his head that sounds a lot like Pan. He washes it away with a second, smaller swallow, closing his eyes and letting his head hang.

What does it matter what Emma thinks of him now? Pan doesn’t usually lie, and he can’t say that he’s really surprised that Baelfire was eager to renew whatever relationship they had. It’s not hard to see that Killian’s already lost, and Pan is _right_ , damn the bastard. Why should he pretend to be something he’s not, when Baelfire clearly already has her heart? When the boy always will?

It’s bloody _laughable_.

He raised Baelfire like a son, for a while. Even after the kid left him, he did his best to make sure Pan stayed distracted — _entertained —_ enough not to hunt the little bastard down. Baelfire is only alive because of him; _he’s_ the reason the kid isn’t one more lost boy under Pan’s shadow. He’d never take all those years back, but it bites knowing that Baelfire has no idea how much he’s already suffered to keep the boy safe. If Baelfire knew, would his kind-of-son step aside?

No, never. Baelfire loves her too, and Killian can’t pretend he’d ever step aside if their positions were reversed. He would cling to Emma with everything he had, if she ever gave him anything to hold on to. Besides, he’s not inclined to tell anyone the truth about everything that’s happened to him in Neverland. Not even if it gets him what he wants. He can’t… Killian’s not sure he could deal with how they would look at him.

_(“He wouldn’t even **recognize** you now.”)_

The rum doesn’t sting as much this time. Pan’s words are sharp in his mind, burning with a pain that still manages to feel fresh, even though it’s a centuries old wound. One that Pan targeted with _perfect_ aim, ripping away what little of it was healed.

Is Pan right?

If Liam were here today, would his brother even recognize what he’s become? This burnt out shell of a man, still clinging to tiny reminders that _once_ , he was someone good? The bright-eyed, honorable, Lieutenant Killian Jones. The man who wouldn’t tolerate even a hint of insubordination, or anything but honor from the men under his command.

Killian laughs, dull and hopeless. Now look at him; a pirate, allying himself with whoever happens to serve his agenda for the day, and staying just intoxicated enough that he doesn’t have to feel the pain waiting in sobriety.

His crew is scattered or dead, his first love murdered, his second in love with the son who abandoned him, and his brother is long since dust on the bottom of the ocean. What does he really have left? His vengeance? That’s gone, centuries of effort washed away in minutes. There’s Pan, but even if he entertained the idea he could kill Pan when he failed at doing it to the crocodile, that’s a dangerous thought to have in Neverland. As much as he hates the demon, he still knows better than to pick a fight. It might be possible with the Evil Queen and Rumpelstiltskin leading the charge, but he _knows_ the kind of power Pan holds. They don’t.

He’s _trying_. He really is. He can’t help loving Emma, even if all it does is hurt, and he is _trying_ to be someone better. For her. But for today? To hell with it.

Let the whole bloody world see what he is. Let them know that Killian Jones isn’t anything more than Captain Hook, he doesn’t _care_. Pan can have it all.

 

* * *

 

Someone does come. Prince Charming, David, the only person in their group apart from bloody _Baelfire_ who does anything but tolerate his presence.

Killian’s slid to the ground, his back against the rock and elbows resting on his bent knees. He hears his companion approaching, not nearly as used to traveling through the jungle plants as he is, but doesn’t bother to look up until Charming’s boots are right in front of him.

“Prince.” He says it in a lazy drawl, probably slurring a little bit, but he’s got some practice at functioning while liquor’s in his system. He gives a crooked grin, lifting the flask in a salute.

Charming has _disapproval_ written all over his face, hands resting on hips like the other man is a damn hero. “Hook,” he starts, “have you really been out here this whole time, drinking?”

“Yes,” he answers, mostly honestly. No one needs to know that Pan still drags him around like he’s on a bloody leash. “Care for a swig, mate?”

“It was foul enough the first time,” Charming states, almost snippy in how he immediately adds, “What’s wrong with you, Hook? It’s dangerous out here.”

“Emma and Baelfire went off together, didn’t they?” he asks, instead of answering Charming’s question. He has to know if that was real. It should have been, Pan doesn’t usually lie when the truth is so cruel, but there’s the tiniest possibility that it was just a trick. One designed to hurt, to make him think the worst of his companions, but something that could be cleared up with a few words.

Charming’s eyes narrow. “Yes,” he confirms, and Killian lifts the flask when the sick swirl hits his stomach. “Why does that matter?”

The rum barely feels like anything against his numb lips, doesn’t even burn his throat like it should. “Fun activities in the woods, you know?”

“Were you _spying_ on them?” Charming asks, with the self righteous disbelief of a hundred men.

Like the bloody prince is so clean, _lying_ to his wife about dying, and then about being trapped here. It’s a dumb question anyway. If he was spying on them he wouldn’t have had to ask, would he?

“No,” he says sourly, “Pan was.”

Charming is on him almost instantly, at least according to his slightly slowed mind, and takes the flask from his hand.

“Hey!” he protests, reaching up and finding the rum far out of reach. That’s cruel, even _he_ wouldn’t mess with a man’s drink like that.

“Pan was here?” Charming demands, holding his _bloody_ rum up and out of arm's length unless he wants to get up to get it. Which he doesn’t.

“Relax, mate.” Killian forces a grin to his face. He can do that, he’s good at it.

“ _Relax?_ ” Charming says incredulously. “You just told me Pan was spying on my daughter, you don’t get to just drop that and then not give me any more.”

For the love of _god_. Killian bites back the nasty response about how Charming is _not allowed_ to tell him what he can’t do, but lets the grin fall as anger overwhelms the rest of him in a wave.

“Haven’t you figured it out?” he snaps, barely keeping his voice down. “You think any of us could stand against a demon like Pan? If he wanted us dead we’d be six feet under by now, and if we were lucky he would kill us _before_ he buried us. But since you can’t keep playing with a toy you’ve broken, Pan plays to _hurt_ , not to kill.” Killian takes a look at the flask, wanting the rum to cushion the acid in his heart. “He spied on Emma to hurt _me_ , mate, not her. Give me my damn flask back.”

“How are you drunk?” Charming asks, lifting the flask instead of _giving it back_. “This is nearly full.”

“Pan’s gift,” he answers shortly, in no mood to play with any correct responses to Charming’s idiocy. “It’s always full on the island, and I’m not drunk _yet_. I was working on that before you interrupted.”

Charming gives him a _look_ that he doesn’t bother reading, not that he has to.

“Let me get this straight. You _know_ that Pan is behind this, and probably _wants_ you wasted, but you’re still playing right into his hands.” Charming shakes his head, flask at his side. “You might be a pirate, Hook, but I didn’t think you were a fool.”

If Pan’s words weren’t still so close to the front of his mind, if they hadn’t hurt so much, Killian probably wouldn’t react so badly. As it is, he jerks to his feet. Swaying slightly, but standing, he glares up at Charming and snatches at the flask, which is pulled away from his grasping hand.

“You don’t know anything about me, mate, you never did. Back the bloody hell off and _let me have this_.”

“No,” Charming denies, with that same infuriating self-righteousness. “You saved my life, Hook, you’re better than this.”

“No I’m not!”

It comes out louder than Killian expects, almost a shout, and painfully raw. He steps back, not liking the way that Charming’s looking at him, something dangerously close to pity in his eyes. He doesn’t want it. Never wanted it.

Killian feels the boulder press against the back of one calf and lets himself drop down onto it, lifting his hand to press over his eyes for a moment, rub at his temples.

“No point in trying, Charming,” he says, dropping his hand and casting his gaze out across the jungle’s undergrowth. He almost expects to see green eyes looking back, mocking his weakness, but there’s nothing. “I haven’t been what you’re looking for in centuries.”

Charming moves forward, and Killian’s reactions are just slowed enough that he doesn’t have the time to protest before Charming’s sitting down next to him. The flask’s gone from his hand, but Killian can’t quite muster the energy to make a fuss about that, not with Charming’s shoulder brushing his and those stupidly earnest eyes watching him. Earnest, but not stupid. No, the prince is perceptive, in his own optimistic way. Right now, that’s not something Killian wants to be true.

Proven again when he pinpoints, “But you were? Once?”

Killian tries for unaffected when he answers, “Aye. When I was young, and as foolishly optimistic as the lot of you,” but he’s pretty sure he misses the mark. “Spend a few years in Neverland; see if you come out with any of that still left.”

“Well, I just might get the chance,” Charming says, and the idiot is _smiling_ when he says it. Before Killian can even manage to process or react to that, Charming’s adding, “Listen, Killian, if you used to be something, you can be it again. Help us stop Pan, rescue Henry. You know this island better than any of us; we’d be a lot better off with your help, and maybe it will help you to get back to who you used to be. Why not try?”

He can think of more than a few reasons not to try, but that’s not the question that comes out of his mouth. “Why do you care, mate? You’ve made no secret of your dislike for me.”

Charming dips his head in concession, and the smile fades to a solemn sincerity. “Because I think you want to try, and if you really want to be better, I’d like to help. Everyone deserves a chance to be better if they want to.” He cracks a crooked smile. “Have you seen the company we’re keeping?”

Killian snorts. Coming to Neverland with the Evil Queen and Rumpelstiltskin does make a rather good case for Charming’s point.

He looks over as Charming reaches into his far pocket, hand emerging with his flask and, to Killian’s surprise, handing it over. He takes it slowly, and Charming meets his eyes and smiles, small and still so foolishly sincere.

“Come on. Put that away and come help us finish this place off once and for all. We can do this, with your help.” Charming stands, brushing off the front of his pants, and then turns and offers him a hand. “So, Hook? You coming?”

Killian swallows, but he… For the first time in a long time, there’s a little flare of light in his chest. Hope, even though he knows how foolish that is. Had it proved to him again and again.

Maybe… one more time. He can try one more time.

He tucks the rum into his coat and takes Charming’s hand. It’s solid and warm, and Charming pulls him to his feet with easy strength and a warm smile. Proud, almost, and it’s bizarrely parental and nothing Killian wants to examine right now.

“Alright, mate. I’m in.”


End file.
